


Flax

by janazza



Series: Linked Universe Shenanigans [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Mind Manipulation, Sky (Linked Universe)-centric, kinda pretentious? lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janazza/pseuds/janazza
Summary: He's so tired. He's so tired that Sky is lulled into doing something the others would hate.
Series: Linked Universe Shenanigans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021210
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Flax

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Possessions of a Tired Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26960749) by [NarshTaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NarshTaters/pseuds/NarshTaters). 



> I have no idea why it took it me this long to post . . .  
> Relating to this art [piece](https://www.instagram.com/p/CHUeZ_BpmlW/?igshid=ptiylcftuuis).

He wakes,

He wakes.

He rouses from dreadful sleep to crisp air and soft breaths of dozing heroes that know nothing of the weight of his eyelids nor the persistent ache in his shoulders. And yet Sky rises from his bedroll all the same. 

Each day lengthens, and his boots rub and blister his skin as Wild and Hyrule mock their group’s speed, and he knows it’s him they wait for. They pace with him without a mention, and it eats him to the core. 

And in his tailing of the group, his mind wanders to the day's events, ruminating over and over in vile humor. He cannot look to Warrior and the bandages around his neck from a spear too close, cannot stare at Wind’s arm stuck in a sling, without feeling sick. 

Never fast enough. Never strong enough nor clever.

And so he blocks it with something gentler, like uncalloused hands kneading through his hair after a long day of work, of feathers against his palms.

He daydreams of lullabies, of symphonies so sweet like honeysuckles against his tongue to drown his faults.

He does not realize he’d lost sight of the group until it is just a wolf whining to silence his song.

* * *

He wakes,

He wakes.

* * *

Another portal, another war.

He walks dazed and smiles when the others smile, following his eyes with the speaker though hearing nothing. The meats and seasoned rice are only ash.

He is first to turn in for the night to be the first awake, rolling on his side to stare off at the looming forest and the symphonies it hides. Its thrum is much more enticing than Demise’s curse or Time’s knowing eye.

Sky waves off Four who was on watch, his questions like static in the middle of a song, and slips through brush that crinkles like applause. 

It's so close he could almost taste it-

“Breakfast!”

The word has no meaning, yet he turns back, the music softening.

* * *

He wakes,

He wakes.

* * *

A mile of monsters stand before them and something that calls to him . . . . He cannot place it but it’s notes are gentle like a violin. 

He was supposed to stay close to Wind who could not wield his sword, but he hears it like a beacon, like a string of fate pulling at his gut.

It’s melody at the corners of his eyes, its lyrics at the tip of his tongue. His fingers itch to tap to a beat only he could place. And he lets the chorus sweep him off his feet _(“What are you doing!?”)_ , guiding as gently as his Zelda to the center of the ballroom, settling his hand to her waist and smiling ( _The monsters ignored him, parting for him even, only to close around him and take slices from polished swords)_ , and he would look to her as if she glowed in such warmth like that of the sun, all imperfections oh so perfect. She would pull him further with promises candy sweet. 

And now he stands alone, together -- alone but catching a dove’s wings at the edge of his mind’s eye. 

No, not alone, because Fi flickered like a buzzing bee, frantic and interrupting the music, so he doesn’t think twice to remove her sheath from his back, her weight like the sky removed from wary shoulders. 

This was not where Hylia wanted him to go, and he relishes how her grip loosens from his throat.

It does not pull with the iron force of a goddess, but it calls him forward with a rising tempo perfect to spin his Sun around until dizzy.

Until he stands before it on his own. He knows what it promises and Sky only takes a moment to look back to the figures fastly approaching, knowing they could not reach him.

They would be okay. They had the master sword and each other and together made up everything he wasn’t— not brave or fierce, reliable, not safe nor promise keeper. 

Sky steps forward to his Elysium and it cups his cheek just below his sunken eye. 

Useless comforts in the grand scheme. 

Gentle caresses to useless cries among useless hardships as they finish the goal set uselessly before them. He was nothing more than limbs held by twines of flax dawned by Hylia, drawing blood from wrist thinned through wear, and lungs compressed by greens meant for the fated stage. False valor dorn like war paint hides exhaustion and self-doubt under the eye of the goddess.

His eyes droop close, voices behind him begging against a golden barrier and those before as soothing as lithium. 

When the paint comes off and the twine is cut, what is left but a hollow doll, unsure limbs balanced dangerously like a newborn fawn? 

Ethereal in warmth and light, a touch from life itself compressed into gold spun between gentle hands pet his cheek like a mother rubbing away mud and tear tracks. 

He’s so tired.

Behind him sing broken hymns on swollen cracked lips, crying for relief in pointless verses. Worse is knowing it would take some time for them to understand.

They speak of a cycle of a spinning wheel spooling threads of fate that never end, never tiring, except for the fool still seated before as its keeper. The tax only grows and bubbles and taints, and fingers bleed and swell to keep up until one day, perhaps, they will simply stop. And a hero keeper will merely look at the pile of unspun slivers of flax and decide to swallow all in hopes to finding relief in a dreamless sleep.

And so he steps forward, embracing peace as his comrade’s hymn rose to a chorus of cacophony, palms beating like a thunder drum he tuned out. There is no thread holding him back, only promises before him.

Drowning in ichor as old as time itself, he sleeps.

And there is no wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why this took so long! Anyway, inspired by NarshTater's Possessions of a Tired Man which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26960749/chapters/65804098).


End file.
